


Marya

by DixieDale



Series: The Life and Times of One Peter Newkirk [20]
Category: Clan O'Donnell - Fandom, Hogan's Heroes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-05-13 03:03:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14740830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: Whenever the wily White Russian came around, things always got complicated.  This time, Peter Newkirk thought of a few other words that came to mind to add to that description: embarrassing, frustrating, dangerous, titillating, educational - oh, did he mention embarrassing??





	1. The Shadow of Your Smile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Combine one exhausted White Russian, a couple of bottles of vodka, a few questions from Andrew Carter, and Newkirk is back to wanting to pound his head against the table! It was worrisome enough, that extra attention the woman was paying him, but the fact that she obviously was someone who TALKED when she drank? "Oh bloody 'ell!!"

Marya Parmanova - She sat at the head of the table, as if she were a queen, a slightly shopworn and weary queen, perhaps, but yet, a queen. Fur hat put aside for now, her burnished auburn hair smooth and silky, her skin smooth as silk, her lush fur coat open, but still across her shoulders. She'd arrived with a German officer, of course, had coaxed Hogan into aiding in one of her very convoluted schemes, and now, since the German officer was now on his way to England via the express route, and she was waiting for information before she headed out to where ever she would go to create mayhem and confusion next, she waited out her time in Barracks 2. Hogan had arranged for Klink to lock down the barracks so there'd be less chance of her being discovered, though no one doubted her ability to bluff her way out even if she was discovered; it'd just go better for Hogan and his crew if she wasn't discovered. And there was no way he wanted her down in the tunnels!

So, since she'd been able to liberate a few bottles of vodka before she'd taken refuge here - no, be honest, Marya wasn't one you associated with 'taking refuge' - before she decided to grace their humble abode with her lush presence - yes, that was more like it - they'd broached the bottles and were having a nice little confab around the table. Somehow, they didn't know just how, the regal and beautiful Russian had become just a bit tipsy; strange, considering all the practice she'd had drinking German officers under the table. Still, there it was, and the men had to admit, she was interesting and a little funny that way.

LeBeau, of course, was in seventh-heaven, his beloved Marya right here, where he could gaze upon her and hear her rich voice and receive the occasional caress, just about roll himself in that drawn out, "my beloved smmaaalll von!". Newkirk just rolled his eyes and shook his head, and Carter did a lot of snickering. Kinch frowned a lot because he wasn't really comfortable having her around, though he tried to hide it, and Hogan, well, he stayed away as much as he could. He said he was distracting Klink, and maybe he was; they didn't turn on the coffee pot, on purpose; some things were just better not . . . Well.

It was Carter that got her started, Newkirk thought later. {"If 'e'd just kept 'is mouth shut, she might not 'ave gone down that road!"}. Though that mischievious knowing smile she had given him earlier made him rather doubt that, along with that LOOK, the one she gave him with that provocative twitch of her brows, when she looked around the room, focused on him and uttered just one word, "YOU!", accompanying it with that rather breathtaking slow motion full body sway, and the absolute leer on her face.

Still, he admitted it was interesting, if slightly nerve-shattering, hearing about that Internship year with Callie and all the rest, comparing and contrasting it to what he remembered about his experiences with her cousin Caeide. It all started with a simple question; well, a comment, then several questions.

"Marya, Coura says you were mentor for Cally, one of Caeide's cousins. Is that right? What was it like? Was she as much of a handful as Newkirk says Caeide was?" Carter asked. Newkirk groaned, {"I'd rather that subject 'adn't come up, or at least that my name hadn't been mentioned with it; I'd 'oped Coura was wrong, that Marya didn't know just who I was. I'm so much better off with 'er not paying any special attention to me!"}

Obviously, her not paying attention to him wasn't going to happen. In fact, her look when she'd first walked into the barracks and spotted him was so long, so intent, so . . . Well, it started at the top of his head, moved ever so slowly down, accompanied by a speculative crook of the brow and sly grin, tongue moving over her upper lip, teeth then gripping the side of her moist lower lip, her eyes moving back up again, pausing, tip of her tongue barely visible now, but making the full trip over her lips, top, bottom, then back again, fingers of one hand moving in that slow ripple, so suggestively that he could almost feel those fingers tracing him, his manhood trying to both rapidly expand and rapidly contract at the same time, which was a rather novel experience to say the least, he had to admit, that he couldn't help himself, he just burst out in a pained protest. "Would you please not do that again, it makes me very uncomfortable, it does!!" to the shouts of laughter from his team mates, a snort of disgust from Hogan, and a loud fervent offer from LeBeau that she could look at him in any way she wished, and a rougish laugh from her, accompanied by a knowing wink and a comforting, well perhaps not so much, pat to his flushed cheek, and a matching one to the cheek of the diminuative Frenchman.

{"WOW! It's like she wasn't just looking at him, it's like she was touching, almost like she was" and Andrew blushed a bit himself, "tasting him?? WOW!!"}. He looked over at LeBeau with huge eyes, questioningly, to meet the grinning, wickedly nodding expression that told him he'd been reading this right, and for some reason, LeBeau was fine with this. Of course, LeBeau didn't think anything Marya did was bad, so there was nothing new there.

Marya laughed, a long low laugh that hit all of them in the lower stomach, well, sort of, anyway, that general direction. Only LeBeau was happy about that, practically glowing; the rest, well, not so much. As they shifted, almost in unison, trying to ignore that practiced effect, "No, I was not mentor for one of Caeide's cousins; I was mentor to four of Caeide's cousins, one after the other! My Cally, well, she was the third, and I have to say, if she'd been the first, I would never have considered taking on the other three. I would not have had the courage! Still, by the time she came to me, I had experience with two before her, and knew she was an exception; after her, having dealt with those two earlier, I gambled that the fourth would be more like them, not like her, and I got lucky!"

She shook her fine head, and poured another shot of vodka. "Oh, I remember each of them, they were each memorable, yes, certainly, but Cally, ai, my Cally, I remember that year like you remember a great storm; it is emblazoned in my memory for all time!" She gave an amused shake of her head in Newkirk's direction, a fellow sufferer sharing histories. She settled back with her glass. 

"The first, Laska, she came for the music, the music and the language. Everywhere we traveled, throughout my beautiful Russia, she searched out the music of the people, the small languages, the words used only in that area. All of it, she wrote down, but also memorized. The music she learned to play, learned the instruments they used, the balalaika, the zhaleyka, the domra, the gudok, many more, all came to her fingers as if she'd been born to play them. And the songs, as if they'd been waiting inside her, just waiting for the chance to pour out. It was a good year, pleasant, memorable for the ease, the quickness with which it passed."

She frowned, paused, "she had a passion for the sky birds, watched them where ever we traveled, with a longing in her eyes you would have expected to see cast upon the young men we met, the ones she ignored totally. She would disappear, sometimes, and I would have to search her out. Always on a hillside would I find her, watching the sky, once without clothing and laying curled on the ground, and my heart stopped at what I thought might have happened, but when I rushed to her, my heart in my throat, she raised clear, shining eyes, and laughed at me, and took up her clothes laying beside her. She'd been wearing only the medallion she had always at her throat, gold chain, silver circle, with a hawk engraved on its surface. She stood, clothed again, holding that medallion tightly to her breast, and laughed, with a great joy, and told me all was well, and stooped to pick up a dark feather that was laying at her feet, tucking it into her belt. She refused to answer my questions, only repeated that all was well, for me not to worry. The family was known for such oddness, so, what was I to do?" She took another tiny sip of vodka.

"Dilic was the second, and for her, it was art, the drawing, the painting. We visited every museum, large and small, and every artist," and with a deep chuckle, "every copyist, as well, every dealer, every, shall we say, purveyor of art along our route. She could spot the real from the false, and by the end of that year, her own work could have been displayed in many a museum, though under other names besides her own, you understand."

She grinned, "in fact, there is a museum on the outskirts of Sochi with a rather nice little Renoir, which they acquired when we were a little short of funds; a 'gift from an admirer', you understand," she chuckled again. "With her, the medallion was that of a dolphin, and I pulled her out of the frigid waters of the Black Sea more than once when we were in Sochi, enough I worried my hands would ever regain their feeling! People thought she was mad, of course, and perhaps she was, but those waters drew her and she made the most of them before we moved on. That last morning, there were two dolphins dancing on the waves, and when I pulled her out, to dress so that we might go forward to our next stop, there were tears in her eyes, and her face searched that stretch of the coast with such longing!"

"Brida was the last, and her interest was in the dress, the costumes, the fabrics from which they were made, how the fabrics were made, what the patterns represented, in addition to the dance. Her notebooks we had to send home with every stop, so quickly did she fill them, rich with color and detail; and so graceful she was at the dances, that she was usually invited to join with the others, though most did not usually welcome outsiders. She wore a nightbird, a great owl, on her medallion, and I learned to take rooms with a balcony, or railed window facing the open air to keep her contented, and to become accustomed to finding her there of a morning, huddled naked under a cloak."

"And Cally?" Carter asked.

Her eyes now were odd, shadowed, a bit wistful. A bigger drink followed, then a second. She smiled and shook her head, "my Cally? As far as I could tell, she had no one great interest except for weaponry and fighting, though into all things did she poke her nose, and question, and learn. She tasted the foods, the drink; she met the people, she danced and sang and played; we traveled together, she watched me and learned the things I could teach her, she learned the woman's arts, she learned to watch and learn and see what made any man act as he did, how to sway how he acted, how to have the most impact on his actions."

Kinch though she was talking rather more freely than he'd have expected, about subjects he wouldn't have thought she'd bring up to a group of men who'd experienced her manipulations before. {"I think she just might be a little drunk!"} he thought with amusement, though he then frowned a bit in sympathy when he realized a good part of that was sheer bone-deep weariness. He wondered now, just how many hours she'd been awake; when he thought about it, he knew it had to be at least forty-eight, maybe, probably many more.

She continued, "she learned how to use the shashka, the Russian small sword, the Cossack whip became a favorite of hers, and she was deadly with both. She practiced with both the pike and the spear, and many wagers were made and won and lost as she took on many experienced fighters; luckily they found her amusing, as I thought they would; their egos would not allow them to find her a threat; they looked on her, for the most part, as an anomaly, an able warrior born into the wrong body."

"And her medallion"" Carter asked, eager-eyed.

"A great cat, black as night, like you could see in the Royal Menageries. For her, I made no special arrangements, for her it did not seem to matter, lack or presence of an open window or door seemed not to slow her down, though I learned not to wear white that year!"

She gave a tiny, definitely tipsy chortle. Everyone was looking at each other, raised brows and incredulous expressions abounding. Newkirk's thoughts were perhaps too apparent on his expressive face, {"rather doubt she'd have been wearing much white then or a long time before anyways!"}, though at least he didn't say it out loud.

Her face took on a serious demeanor, "we were cornered, once, leaving a cafe in Leningrad, by a small group of drunken soldiers. Bah, pigs! They were too drunk to talk sense to, they forced us toward an alley, while everyone in the square pretended not to see, not wanting to become involved," and an angry resentful look crossed that beautiful face, "and while I had my pistol, in the fighting, in the confusion, I was hurled into a wall and fell, stunned. When I could see clearly again, they were all dead, blood, blood covering their bodies, covering the stones lining that alley. I remember, no," she shook her head violently, with determination, "I do not know what I remember, have never made sense of what I remembered. She helped me to my feet, we made our way to the small room we had rented through the alleys. We had to burn our clothes, so much blood was there, and much water did it take to wash it away from us, from her hands," she took another drink, "from her face and mouth, her hair even, though she had suffered no injury that I could see. We left early the next morning, before dawn, even though I had thought to stay for the rest of the week. The papers, they said the authorities thought some great beast had escaped from the menagerie kept by one of the rich ones in the area. It seemed wiser not to stay while they did their search." She shook herself, as if shaking off a shadow, and forced a bright smile to her face.

She laughed, "I imagine your friend there has his own stories to tell. I heard some of them, of course, since his protege and mine were best of friends and exchanged letters on occasion. I imagine he found that year as challenging as I did!"

"Challenging?" came from LeBeau.

{"Louie, I wish you 'adn't done that, I really do,"} Newkirk sighed to himself. {"She don't need any encouragement, and I've 'ad some suspicions about those letters from a thing or two Coura said! I'd just as soon not 'ear about them sitting 'ere in the barracks with all me mates sitting around!"}.

Marya laid back that glowing head, shrugged those beautifully shaped shoulders and laughed, "Challenging is perhaps a mild word, I will admit!" 

"Of course, Cally exchanged letters, in their own language you understand, that none outside the Family could read, with others who were also working with mentors, with others from home, but those letters, they were what you would expect, very matter of fact, questions asked, questions answered, events recounted, but without the grace, the humor, the poetry that seemed to flow from Caeide's letters. Cally said her cousin was a student, no, a master of the old music, the old songs of their people, from a very early age, so maybe that accounted for it, for the allure of her words. They had all agreed to share their letters with the mentors, if the mentors made that request, and while I understand that he never did so, which may or may not have been wise for his peace of mind," nodding in Newkirk's direction, "the other two, the knowing Maude and irrepressible Marisol did, I believe, as did I."

"Cally would read to me from those letters, and I would sometimes laugh as I'd thought I'd long ago lost the ability to laugh at the things she would recount, her views and how she described her interactions. Sometimes, I would shake my head in great sympathy at what they must be going through, trying to guide this one through that year, hearing the vibrant personality, the strong will, the sheer intensity, the passion for living coming through in her words. And sometimes," she gave a shake of her head, and her voice softened, became very thoughtful, "sometimes I would wonder at just how much she SAW, the depth with which she saw, and understood, and accepted, and I would fear for her, just a little bit, for such deep understanding can bring much pain; and I would envy her, just a little bit, for such deep understanding can bring much joy, and I wondered which would win out, or if she could bring it into balance. Sometimes, I could almost believe she was Russian from the emotion that poured from those pages! A simple encounter with a flower seller, or an evening at the pub, or the darkness of the low alleyways, it was as if listening to one so attuned to their senses, to all that was around them, that it could take your breath away. And when she talked of more personal things, eie."

Kinch was wondering how to put a stop to this reverie, because the look on Newkirk's face was beyond uncomfortable, not far from panic, and though Kinch usually thought Newkirk was way overdramatic, overreacted too easily, forgetting that Peter had been here for almost five long years versus his own shorter stay and, as a result, had had the unwelcome opportunity for his nervous system to be stretched rather more thinly than the others, he was starting to feel sympathy for his teammate's plight. Carter, though, he had a look on his face, and it was apparent another question was coming out. Thankfully, though, it wasn't one Kinch, or even Newkirk was expecting; Carter had also read that look of near panic and decided it was time to maybe redirect this conversation, at least for now. 

"Did she have a medallion too?" he asked the Russian. "Or did Cally ever tell you?"

"Yes, I asked her once, and she told me her cousin, how did she say it, yes, 'Caeide Runs as wolf, a red one' and she laughed, and said, 'that's part of the problem, I suppose, if you consider it a problem, which I don't really, merely a part of who she is. She Runs as wolf, and her Warrior aspect ascended early, so she Fights and Lives and Thinks, yes, and Loves as Wolf and as Warrior as well as Woman'."

They could hear those capital letters, easily, in her voice. Marya said, "she told me, 'for many of us, the Warrior doesn't appear til later, if at all, for the presence of the Warrior, it is not a certain thing, coming only to a chosen few among us; even when the Warrior does appear, although it can be unsettling to have the three clammering for control, in most, supposedly all, at least they take turns, one in control, the others standing back for that time. In her, I think sometimes all might have a seat at the head of the table at once, which is most rare and most difficult to deal with and leading to some most unusual situations." And she laughed, and said, "though she seems to be handling it well, and getting sufficient joy of it!" 

"And there was such music that year, and there were songs, some inspired by those letters, the letters written by Caeide, the songs written by my Cally! One letter I remember in great detail, because my Cally wrote a song taking just a touch of what one letter spoke of, and it was simple but haunting. I heard it sung in a Parisian cafe a couple of years later, and oh, the memories it brought back."

"You heard it sung??! In a cafe, in public?" LeBeau spoke up.

"Yes, I believe it was overheard by another who saw its beauty, and the request was made, and permission given, and then . . ., well many have sung it since."

LeBeau frowned, "what was it called, would I have heard it?" She smiled a trifle at him, wondering to herself why there were two small Frenchmen talking to her, but answering anyway.

"It was called 'ombre de ton sourire'," and his eyes grew big. "I do not remember hearing it," he lied, remembering very well indeed and his eyes went to his friend, {"please, Marya, do not translate that! Most assuredly do not SING that song, especially do not sing it in English!"} Luckily, she did not, and he heaved a sigh of relief, know he'd not translate either if he could find a way around it. Newkirk was now looking at him with threats and pleas equal in his gaze, and LeBeau gave him a comforting, understanding smile.

But just when Newkirk had started to relax, she started up again, after reaching out to pour yet another glass of vodka. {"Where the bloody 'ell is she putting all that!! And why doesn't the Gov get back and put a stop to this merry little session of remembering??! Before she says something I'll regret, more than everything else she's said, that is,"} came his fervent internal groan. But Hogan did not return, not then, not in time.

Her eyes were now unfocused, and her tone soft and a bit hazy, "that song came from when Cally wrote asking Caeide to describe him, her mentor, as she had already given descriptions of the other two, Maude and Marisol, though she had not done so for him. Those were also very detailed, very insightful, honest and affectionate, but this, this was different. She said it wasn't easy, because what he looked like, that she could describe, and did, of course, and truly I should perhaps have recognized him from that description, but that wasn't how she saw him, how she would distinguish him from others."

"That she saw him as, well, she called him a Man of Smiles. She named them, and described them as well - The smile he put on in the morning, the one that defined who he had decided to show to the world that day; the casual, disarming smile as he was picking some unsuspecting pocket; the determined and cold smile when he was backed into a corner, showing his defiance in spite of the odds; the varied smiles he used to get himself out of trouble; the smile of pride and shared congratulations when she accomplished something difficult he had been trying to teach her; the smile of such warmth he would secretly give those who he thought of as family; the smile he had with a bad card hand and the smile he had with a winning hand." She shook her head and laughed, "she said what was so amusing, there was only a hair, maybe less in difference between those two smiles. She described the smile he would give a blonde at the bar, or the ribbon clerk, or the occasional visiting duchess, that smile that promised and engaged, and ensured he'd not be sleeping in a cold bed that night; the same smile that told her he'd be coming late to her lessons the next day."

Marya stopped, nodded her head gently, and her voice softened, almost a whisper now, "And she described, not a smile, only the shadow of a smile, the one that came at the end of a day that has been too long, too tiring, too cold and wet, too miserable, the one that came when he was finally able to attain perhaps just a tiny bit of warmth and comfort and safety and ease, the one she said it would be worthy of a noble quest, a life's quest, to draw it out from the back of his eyes where he kept it hidden, out into the light of day, to sit fully upon his lips."

Marya was definitely drunk now, listing just slightly, but still speaking clearly, far too clearly as far as Newkirk was concerned. The looks he was getting now were very telling, LeBeau amused but sympathetic, Kinch amused and very sympathetic, Carter . . . Well, the look he was getting from Carter was different, slightly amused, slightly sympathetic, but far too knowing, far too wistful somehow. "I never asked Cally how she had described me to Caeide, although I know she had; after hearing that letter, I never had the courage!" and another small laugh escaped her, almost more of a sob than a laugh. "It would be too much like looking into a mirror, a mirror that sees perhaps more than you want to see about yourself, a mirror that cannot lie."

Carter, being Carter, just had to ask that one last question, "Marya, when you talk about Laska, and Dilic, and Brida, you just call them by their names; like Newkirk does when he mentions Meghada or Briana, some of the others he taught. But when you talk about Cally, you call her 'my Cally', just like he does with Caeide, it's 'my Caeide'. Why?" but somehow, the look on Marya's face as she looked at Newkirk, the look on his face as he looked back, well, even Carter knew when it was time to stop the questions. Silence filled the room.

Just at that moment, Hogan breezed back in throught the door. "Still drinking??!" he asked in reproach. "Guys, you've had enough, looks like to me. What if we get a job for later on?? Put the caps back on and call it a day, or a night, considering how late it's gotten." He'd ignored Marya, who sat looking up at him owlishly.

"Hogan, daarrlling! Where have you been? We were having such an enjoyable conversation," but then she frowned, "at least I think we were. I don't seem to remember any of it right now, though, for some reason," and Newkirk, who'd been sweating this moment, caught the tiny roguish smile and gleam in her eye, along with the sly wink. He heaved a deep breath, and resolved that he too couldn't remember much of the conversation, and shot a warning, a somewhat pleading look around the table at the others.

It was another full day before she could leave, time in which she drank little, other than a strong mug of vodka upon awakening after her marathon. She sat, she talked some, she listened, she watched. She watched as they interacted with each other. She listened as Andrew told about the letters from Caeide, the letters from Coura. She listened as Peter relaxed enough to answer some questions, relate some tales about that so memorable year. She watched as they all interacted with each other, watched to see how they regarded each other.

She watched when Hogan came out of his office and gathered Peter to check some things in the tunnels below; she watched the glances the others gave amongst themselves; she saw their faces - LeBeau sad and concerned, Kinch embarrassed and concerned, Andrew - he was sad, concerned and more than a bit angry, she noted. She watched when the two returned, Hogan with a smug smile on his face and a swagger to his step, going back into his office and shutting the door; Peter's face was a casual mask, his eyes not meeting anyone's, a hint of bruising in those eyes as well as in his lips. Then she reached for the vodka again, shaking her head.

"Marya??" LeBeau asked her in a low voice, "is something wrong?"

She looked at him, knowing quite well he knew, they all knew. She sighed deeply, shaking her auburn head again, "perhaps it is that I am Russian, but I find myself thinking of things philosophical. Consider the concepts of both tragedy and irony and other such things." They looked at her, even Newkirk who was now stretched out in his bunk, having been intently studying the ceiling in all its bare wooden glory, puzzled at this turn of her mind.

"For example, which is the more ironic, the more tragic? Is it to be given a rich treasure and, out of pride, refuse to accept it, thinking yourself unworthy, yet binding that treasure to you with sweet chains, all unknowing, so that it can never belong to anyone else? Or is to see a equally rich treasure, to clasp it in your hands but treat it roughly, carelessly, out of arrogance, ignoring the opportunity for binding that treasure to you with those same sweet chains, thinking in your hubris, your overwhelming pride that you have no need to do so?"

Newkirk found himself angry, knowing the anger wasn't at her, but, well, she was there and she'd brought it out of that deep pocket in his mind where he'd forced it down with such effort. His voice showed his anger, shaking just a bit, "and just 'ow do you deal with the treasures you're given?" thinking of what he suspected of Cally, thinking of what he knew about LeBeau.

She smiled at him, sadly and gently, "my dear Peter," and that alone got the pair of them some very odd looks, "I deal with them as best I can, knowing that my duty prevents me from taking them into my hands now, and that to do so would put them at more risk. Giving what I can, hoping a day will come when I can give more. Acknowledging the gifts to the givers with thanks, with a grateful heart. Acknowledging to myself that NO ONE is 'worthy' of such gifts, myself least of all perhaps, but that such gifts are not a matter of being worthy or unworthy, but simply ARE, like the sun, and the moon, and the sky, and to be valued as such. Acknowledging to myself that I am one of the lucky few, one to whom more than one treasure is offered, to whom the opportunity may be given to accept both gifts fully, gifts and givers in harmony together, perhaps, in the right time." 

She caught his eye, a fast glance over at Andrew that no one else could see, and then back again, her smile deepening, "it's a matter of surviving til that time comes, but the knowing of the possibilities, that makes the surviving perhaps just that little bit easier, more worth the striving for." His eyes, looking back into her wise, sad and knowing ones, had a mist over them, and he rolled back to looking at the ceiling. The others were still looking at her, LeBeau with shining eyes and a smile, Kinch with wary puzzlement, Andrew, well, in his brown eyes she saw gratitude and understanding.

She was amused and appreciative when it was time for her to leave and Andrew came close and dropped a light kiss on her cheek, with a murmured, "thanks", not caring that everyone was staring at him in shock. After she was out the door and gone, Hogan turned to him and snapped, "and what was that about?" and Carter looked at him in innocent surprise, "well, gee, Colonel, it's not every day I get the chance to kiss a beautiful woman, you know!" and Hogan shook his head. Sometimes he forgot just how childish Carter could be, thinking a light kiss to the cheek counted as 'kissing a beautiful woman!" He wondered if that one would ever grow up!


	2. When You've Given All You Can Give

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the White Russian's luck finally runs out, the Germans set a trap using her as bait to gather in any of her past associates. Although the Command Team is ready and willing to try to pull her loose, London orders them to Stand Down, and Hogan agrees, even though the team reminds him how much Marya knows about their operation. Well, he knows that London had its own plans for Marya, and a rescue doesn't figure into it. When rescue comes from an unexpected source, Hogan and the team is put in the middle, willing or not. And, just to add to the overall interest, Carter gets the answer to some of his questions, and in return is able to answer a few questions Hogan and the guys have.

They were gathered outside on this cold winter day, for although it was cold, the sun was shining for a change, and that alone made it worth turning up the collars of their jackets and huddling on the side of the building facing the gate, where the rays would hit the drab plywood and bounce back on them. They were discussing nothing much at all, in great earnestness, when the gates to the camp swung open and a German staff car rolled through in great dignity. "Burkhaulter. Wonder what he wants?" Hogan intoned, "come on guys, lets have a listen," and they hurried back to his office and plugged in the coffee pot. They listened to the usual false cheerful greeting from Klink, the usual disgusted replies from Burkhaulter, but Burkhaulter seemed in a more genial mood than usual. "Klink, you will be receiving guests in, oh, approximately one week. It will be for two nights, probably no more; you will be sure accommodations are in order, your best room in the VIP hut, appropriate food and drink available, and a private cell in your cooler. It will be your responsibility to be sure these guests are kept safe; that there is no contact for the prisoner with ANYONE during their visit; is that understood?" Silence. "Is that understood?" came at a much higher volumn. "Well, of course, I'll be ready, Herr General, but who are these guests? Why must they come to my Stalag and disrupt my routine? There are perfectly fine hotels in Hammelburg and . . ." "Klink! Do not be more of an idiot than is necessary! A hotel cannot provide the level of security that is required! Frankly, I am not at all sure you will be able to either, but the officer in charge of this little project would not listen to me, so we are stuck with this! But I warn you, Klink, there must be no slip ups; there must be no breach of security. There will be no forgiveness if that happens, for you, or for me." "But Herr General, you have not said, who are these visitors?" "Ah yes, General Von Strader, and his contingent, with his prisoner, a spy who has been allowed to wander Germany for far too long. I could have told them, but no, they were too enthralled. Finally, someone put it all together, a list of all the contacts, showing how each of those contacts ended up either dead, or becoming a traitor, or discredited somehow, whatever, and they caught her!" "Her, Herr General? A woman?" "Yes, Klink a woman. A most entrancing woman. At least you seemed to think so when she was throwing herself in your arms!" "My arms, Herr General? Oh, I am quite certain . . ." "The Russian woman, Marya Parmanova! I believe she visited this camp on more than one occasion. It is only fitting that she should visit it one more time on her way to Berlin, is it not, only this time in chains!" 

The guys were in shock. Yes, they knew the woman played a dangerous game, but somehow they'd seen her pull off so many a mad caper that they'd come to believe she could scheme her way into and out of just about anything. LeBeau looked like he was about to break into either tears or into a shouting rage, and Hogan frowned sternly at them, "Quiet! I want to hear this!" and they quietened down again. "But why here, and why in a week? Where was she that it would take a week to get here? And why come here, if she is headed for Berlin?" "Because, Klink, you fool, she has to have been getting help from others in order to accomplish what she has accomplished! They are bringing her to Berlin via, how do they say it, the 'scenic route', making many stops, allowing her to be seen in many places. We do not believe the Allies will allow us to get her to Berlin without attempting to free her, and when they do, General Von Strader and his men will be ready for them!!! So, they have mapped out the areas where she has been seen in the past, where they think she may have made friends, have contacts. They trail her through those areas and when the attempt is made, SNAP! We have her, we have her compatriots, and Berlin is most happy! Von Strader thinks he may be able to set and close this trap several times, using her as bait! And, my dear Colonel Klink, she has been here SEVERAL times, with strange things happening each time, so Stalag 13 is most definitely on the route! I mean it, Klink. There will be no problems while they are here. Out on the road, yes, let them play their games! But not here, where if anything goes wrong, you AND I will end up on the Russian Front, IF, and ONLY IF, we are very lucky! Otherwise, we will end up someplace not nearly so pleasant!" The visit ended with more threats, more assurances, and they returned to the compound to watch the staff car pull back out again. "Kinch, get on the radio to London, see what they know about this, tell them what we heard. Check with the Underground to see what they've heard too. Carter, keep an eye on Klink's phone, I want his calls, in and out, monitored for any information about this." Kinch and Carter hurried off, leaving Newkirk and LeBeau huddled with Hogan. "Mon colonel, we must find a way to help her," LeBeau started, with Newkirk chiming in, "never thought I'd say this, Colonel, but 'e's right, you know. We can't just let them take 'er along to Berlin; you know what's waiting for 'er there," seriously. "Just hold on, see what we hear back, then we'll talk about it some more," and he turned up the collar of his coat and casually made his way over to Klink's office to see what he could find out from that direction.

Hogan was gone for over an hour, coming back to report that Klink knew nothing more than what they'd heard, but that he was terrified that Marya's prior protestations of love for him would lead to Von Strader implicating him. Kinch was waiting with the response to his radio inquiries, "Colonel, London says Stand Down. We're not to get involved in this; she's being used as a stalking horse and they know it. The Underground has been given the same instructions; they don't necessarily like it, but they have no choice. It's a trap, obviously a trap, and it would just be throwing away lives to even make the attempt," he reported grimly. Raising his hands and his voice in defense, "LeBeau! That's not me talking, it's London! I don't make the rules, you know!" LeBeau turned to Hogan, "mon Colonel, you can think of a plan! You have done it before!" But Hogan was adamant; London was right, it was an obvious trap, and they had their orders. The men looked at LeBeau, standing there, slack jawed, hurting for him, his infatuation with the effusive Russian one of the constants in their lives. They expected rage, they got only a whispered, "If it was Tiger, no WHEN it was Tiger, then the orders from London, they did not matter. But when it's my Marya, now we listen to London," and started for the tunnel. "LeBeau! Get back here! You're confined to barracks til final notice, no tunnel, no missions. Do you understand me??!" And the men looked at Hogan in disbelief. Oh, they understood it was a trap, they understood the risk, they understood London had told them, and everyone else, to stand down. But, in a way she was one of theirs, fighting for the same cause, well, maybe, sort of, and this just didn't seem right. Even discounting that, the amount of information in that beautiful head, including about their operation, well, that had to be addressed. Newkirk brought that up, only to get a frown from Hogan, "I'm sure London is taking that into account," and Kinch started to say something, but a word from the Colonel had him drawing back, adding nothing. Hogan didn't think letting the men know that HQ would see to it that Marya, her beautiful head and all that information, never reached Berlin, though it wasn't a rescue they had in mind, but an elimination of a risk. No, that would only set the men off again. Kinch alone knew that information, and Hogan had forbidden him from sharing it. That night, as they lay in their bunks, more than one of them wondered if the day would come when it would be them out there, in the hands of the Germans, with London saying Stand Down. Would Hogan just sit back then? None of them were very reassured by their thoughts.

They monitored Klink's phone, tried to keep track of the progress of Von Strader's little caravan; it wasn't difficult to keep track of Von Strader; the Germans were making a big deal of it, attracting much attention. Two days into the wait, another four or five, maybe six before they were expected to arrive at Stalag 13. The Underground reported they had spotted her when Von Strader stopped in a small town near Frankfurt, but nothing further. Then they found themselves pulled away from their focus on Von Strader and Marya. There was an urgent call from the Underground; need immediate assistance in the way of shelter for a space of time; they would be bringing in four operatives, some injuries, via, of all things, a German staff car, and its entourage, arriving in two hours; be prepared! Codename: Toujours. Hogan tried for more information, but they'd signed off, and no call to them was answered; it was like they'd shut down the operation! So he fumed at the orders, at the lack of more information, and he made preparations, and he waited. They'd sussed out space in one of the tunnels where they gathered the airmen who were being passed through their escape route; they'd alerted Wilson as to possible injuries; and they waited. 

At exactly the appointed time two German staff cars roared into camp. They pulled up alongside the gate guard, one leaned out and after some discussion, proceeded to take the cars to the area between two unused barracks buildings, where they would not be visible from the road. A tall arrogant looking German officer stalked out of the lead car, putting on his gloves, looking around disdainfully. He continued his measured pace toward the Kommandant's office, from which Klink was now rushing, monicle gleaming in the sun. "Sir, I did not know you were here, I was told it would be a week," only to get a fierce frown, "What are you babbling about, Colonel? A week? A week for what?" "But, are you not General Von Strader?" Klink gasped. "Idiot!" The man in the Army Colonel's uniform spit at him, "Do I LOOK like a General Von Strader? You have not learned to read German military insignia, Kommandant? Then I will give you a lesson! See, here, this tells you I am a Colonel, in the German Army. Look closely, next time you may remember!" Klink was bug-eyed now, nodding his balding head repeatedly. "Now, I need to use your office for a brief while, then we will be on our way! Show me, then you will sit in the outer office and wait, guarding the door, making sure I am not disturbed, until I am done! Is that understood??!" And a bemused Klink led the officer to his office and sat himself down in the chair in the anteroom to wait, to stunned to do anything different. He realized he didn't even know the Colonel's name, but didn't think it would be very smart to go in and ask. {"On his way out, yes, it is within my rights as Kommandant to know who borrowed my office, surely!"}

Kinch had made his way to the tunnel under the empty barracks, listening for signs of which one the visitors may have entered. Nothing. Carter came to check, "Hey, Kinch. What's the delay?" he whispered, receiving only a puzzled shrug, "don't know, I can't tell if they are in one of the barracks or still outside," only to have a low voice sound to the left of them, "neither, at least not anymore." They whirled in shock, to see two dim forms, and behind them, two more. "I suppose this is where we are supposed to say 'take us to your leader?' came a hushed voice. 

Hogan listened at the coffee pot. Nothing! But how could there be nothing? Not a sound, not a whisper, nothing that would indicate the phone was being used. Then, a crash as the door was flung open, and footsteps fading away, to the sound of "Klink! Are you asleep sitting there?" "No, of course not, Colonel, uh Colonel, uh what did you say your name was?" "I didn't, Klink, and if I were you, I don't think I would mention to your superior officers that you let someone whose name you didn't even know, someone whose papers you never bothered to check, that you left that someone in your office, unattended for twenty minutes! Security, hmmppphhf! My name, as you would have already known if you had bothered to do your job, is Colonel Karl Guderian." A pause, "I believe you know of my uncle?" And a high pitched squeek from Klink, "of course Colonel Guderian, of course. Now, how else may I be of service?" "You may not. I have completed my business, I will now collect my staff, and I will depart your little Stalag. And Klink, I do not want my business whispered about, to anyone, do you understand? My business is my uncle's business! And I mean no one!" "Yes, of course, Colonel. You have my guarantee!" Then a gulp and a whimper, as a sharp noise told them a swagger stick had slapped the top of the desk, and a low, deep menacing snarl, "I had better have your guarantee, my dear Colonel, or you will wish I had only sent you to the Russian Front. I do hope you understand that!" and the outer door crashed open. Hogan dashed to the door of the barracks where Newkirk had been keeping watch, "just roared out of there, let out a shout, and, oh, there they come now, Gov," as the two staff cars pulled up, collected the Colonel and left. "Six jerries in, six jerries out, slick as anything. Did they leave anything behind, then?" "Don't know, Kinch and Carter haven't reported back. Where's LeBeau?" "He was with Wilson when they came barrelling in, didn't 'ave a chance to get back afore it all started." They turned as Kinch came up thru the bunk entrance, "Colonel, we got em, and you are NOT going to believe it! Newkirk, we're going to need Wilson, tunnel three," and turned to lead Hogan down to their new guests. 

The team stared in disbelief. One much the worse for wear White Russian, in trousers, shirt and jacket, bruised, battered, with a jagged cut and several bruises defacing that once beautiful face. Three men, in similar dress, all with hard looks on their faces. The two taller ones were dark complected, with dark hair, strong but not bulky. The leader was shorter, had dark hair as well, but was much more fair, sturdy but less muscled than the others. His face was marred, however, by a severe knife scar down his left cheek, distorting the pull of his mouth and causing a droop to the outside of his eye on that side. If they'd thought the other two looked hard, that was nothing to how THIS one looked! Eyes like brown ice, that scar, cold hard mouth; obviously this wasn't someone who would go unnoticed or unremarked; he looked more like a pirate than anything else. One of the taller spoke up, "we'll be out of your hair as soon as we can, Colonel. We should have exit in place within a day, hopefully sooner. In the meantime, we need some medical assistance, if possible," motioning to Marya, who gave a pitiful attempt at a smile. "Hello, Hogan darling. And my beautiful smaaalll von! Where is he?" only to have LeBeau come rushing around the corner, with Wilson and Newkirk at his heels. His gleeful welcoming "Marya!" was cut short as he caught sight of her battered condition. He repeated it again, this time in a low, broken voice, "Marya, my darling Marya, what have they done to you?" "Shush, small von, it is nothing." She winced and moved painfully, "well, maybe not nothing, but less than it could be, let us say,". Wilson hurried them all outside, except for the leader of the visitors who just gave him a cold glare and ignored the order to leave. Marya nodded at Wilson, "let him stay, you couldn't get him to leave anyway, why waste your time and energy," she said with a resigned laugh. 

Hogan whirled, "Kinch, find out what you can about this! Everything! Now!" "Yes, Colonel" and he sped off to the radio room. "Carter, get back to monitoring Klink's calls; I want to know EVERYTHING!" "And where might you be going, sir?" came from the lanky Englishman. "To see Klink, to see if I can spot what that so-called Colonel was doing in Klink's office, to see if he's over his nervous breakdown yet, you know, the usual!" And Hogan dashed off to weedle and manoeuvre Klink, you know, the usual!

 

Hogan was back within the hour. "And how was the ole geezer, anyway?" Newkirk asked from his place on the wooden bench, his familiar cards laid out in front of him. "Well, if anyone is looking for kittens, they should just wait awhile, because I think he's about to give birth to a batch!" He shook his head, poured himself a cup of not-quite-coffee, and sat down at the bench too. He looked over his shoulder, to see Carter standing in the doorway to his office, listening to them, but obviously keeping an ear out for Klink's phone too. "I couldn't see anything out of place in Klink's office; I'm guessing the guy just went in, sat down and waited for twenty minutes, then came out, created the fuss and left again. Just a distraction to let that crew get in." He frowned, "Kinch said they were in the tunnel already, he didn't have to let them in. That means that entrance is too obvious. We need to work on that." "Right, sir. Maybe we could ask them just 'ow they found it? Might let us know where we went wrong." "Okay, but take a look yourself while you're at it." "Sure thing, Gov.". "Let's go have a little chat with the new guests, shall we? Carter, let that be, but put a block on his phone, static, you know the bit." The three of them went back down into the tunnels, to find Wilson gone and the four settled into the area they were assigned, the two taller ones in front, the leader, one foot on the cot, forearm on his knee, leaning over the seated Marya, who had LeBeau seated beside her. "Okay, now fill me in. What happened, when and how, where is Von Strader? And don't leave anything out! I can't afford for you to bring the Gestapo down on us!" His voice wasn't friendly, and his men tried not to react, but you could see they weren't happy about his attitude. "Mon Colonel," LeBeau started to protest, but a quick, "quiet, LeBeau! All right, I'm waiting." One of the dark men started to respond, when Hogan held up his hand, "I'm thinking YOU'RE in command here; why are you letting him do your talking for you?" glaring at the shorter man by Marya. An equally harsh glare, then an even harsher, painfully harsh, low and grating voice, "for now, it seemed advisable," opening the collar of his shirt to show the purpling bruises encircling his neck. Hogan winced, as did the others. "Alright, just someone tell me what's going on. And how did you know about the entrance to the tunnel?" He listened, his jaw dropped, he sat on one of the bunks, and one by one his men sat too. They couldn't believe it, it just wasn't possible! But later the reports would come in, backing up all they were told. After Von Strader left Frankfort, for some reason, he'd turned off the route, sending a message ahead that he had word of the plot, that he was giving them an ideal opportunity, and fully expected to have a triumphant report within forty-eight hours. Next report showing him in Karlsruhe, which made little sense, and the next in Freiburg, of all places. Then, no trace once they'd driven out of Freiburg. Now, of all things, a report Von Strader had been seen in Basel. "But that is in Switzerland, mon colonel!" "Yes, it is," with a suspicious look at Marya. "Do not glare at me, Hogan. I am merely a passenger, a mere piece of luggage. I had no say in this, no part of the planning," and she issued her own glare on the dark haired leader, "or I would have put a stop to this insanity! To risk all of you! It was madness!" "We didn't put Hogan and his operation in any more risk than they usually face, Marya, the trail leads nowhere near Stalag 13, leads far away, in fact," came that damaged voice, but with a touch of amusement beneath the painful rasp. "I was not talking about Hogan and his operation and you know it," and they were surprised to see the Russian was indeed angry with the man, "you, you and all the others, for me, for one person, it was madness!" "Maluskha, milaya, do you really think I'd let them take you?" The obvious endearments caused some raised eyebrows among Hogan's crew, but not among the others. "It's time, Marya, time to come home. You've done your share, you've done so much more than your share! It's enough!" A coughing spasm caught him and he struggled to get air; LeBeau brought a cup from the water supply in the corner, urged it on him. With a nod of thanks, he sipped, sipped again, and cleared his throat. "Sorry," with a wry smile that changed his face amazingly, and he seemed to know it, for he turned his face away quickly. Turning to her once again, "you won't be able to work in Germany again, or France, even disguised; the Allies, NKVD, they have other operatives," holding up a hand, cutting off her protests, "yes, not so good as you, but . . . Marya, m'fhiorghia, ma runsearc, I mean it, it's done, it's finished." And the tone in his voice, the look on his face brooked no opposition. She looked at him, searchingly, wonderingly, then sighed deeply, nodded in resignation. She rose and picked up the hand mirror Wilson had left with her, at her insistance. She reached up a amazingly steady hand and almost, not quite touched the bandage on her face. With a toss of her head, and a shrug, "So, where do we go from here?" At Hogan's raised brows, she shrugged again, "I told you, I had no part in the planning, they've told me nothing, I've had to learn it as we came along! I must admit, I am not accustomed to playing someone else's game, I do not enjoy it!" A scattered bit of laughter from both groups, as they agreed. {"No, she wouldn't, now would she? Mistress of confusion, always with a plan within a plan within a plan. She'd not like being the one watching, wondering what was to 'appen next!"}

One of the men leaned back and stretched, "Von Strader will be discovered, perhaps in Zurich, lots of money in his pockets, his men abandoned somewhere, who knows where, they'll never be found. He will die, somehow, perhaps in a failed robbery attempt, perhaps while trying to escape capture, perhaps hit by a car crossing the street, perhaps he will choke on a chicken bone at his luncheon" getting a small laugh from his team, "who knows, and there will be no trace of his prisoner. It will hopefully be supposed that he was paid to let her escape, and tried for his own escape over the border. We will see; those arranging that part have flexibility to let circumstances dictate their final actions. In any event, he is the one who hurt Marya; he will die, though perhaps not so slowly or as painfully as we would like." A shrug, with a look of apology at the Russian, "for that we are most sorry, Marya, but sometimes, as you well know, you have to make compromises." Hogan's team looked at each other at that bare statement, though the others seemed to take it as only what should be expected.

They rested, they waited, and meanwhile Carter decided to ask a question he'd been meaning to ask, just as soon as he found someone who might know. "Marya? You know a lot about Germany, right?" "But of course!" "Well, in Berlin, there are two nightclubs, the Berlin Tripoli and the Parisian. What are they like? I've heard they are very different, but no one said anything more." She looked at him with huge eyes, "But my dear Carter! To hear about the Berlin Tripoli, that I can understand, possibly. But WHERE did you hear about the Parisian? That is not a place that would come up in most conversations!" He didn't give any particulars, and the others were trying to figure out where'd he'd come up with that too, then remembering them from the 'visit' by Major Richards and the O'Donnell girl. "I just did," he said sheepishly. She shook her head, "then someone has been talking too much! YOU, with those eyes, with such innocence shining forth, you should not be anywhere near the Parisian, should not know anything of it! The Berlin Tripoli, it is a nightclub, of course, elegant," with a contemptuous shrug, "at least by German standards. Singers of, how do you call it, 'torch songs', long elegant tight dresses, carefully made up, very high class. Many high ranking German officers go there, those of the High Command even, many civilians who work hand and hand with the Nazi's.". "And the other?" he asked, obviously not letting it drop. The rest of the guys just listened, having had their own curiosity aroused. She shook her head at him, amused at his insistence. "The Parisian, it is as far from the Tripoli as it can get. Oh, there is singing, there is dancing, but it is of a most different nature. If something can be spoken of, sung in a delicate manner, then at the Parisian you will find it spoken of, sung at the far opposite, the most unbelievably indelicate manner possible. What is suggested with the faintest of hints at the Tripoli for fear of being too outrageous, too daring, at the Parisian, well, in many cities you would be arrested for such use of the hands, the body, in public! The dancing, the choreography is supposedly very detailed, very effective, very, uh, 'stirring of the senses'. That it still operates, I am astonished; but there are a few of high rank who have such tastes, so they look the other way. One day, Hitler will take notice, and the place and all those in it, poof, it and they will vanish! I must ask again, how did YOU hear of it?" with the tone of a disapproving mother in her voice, and a reproving frown to Hogan and his men, as if they had failed to adequately guard this one, to a coughing laugh from the dark haired leader. "We had one of ours undercover at both places, Marya, for just a bit, and I think she passed through here on her way home." Marya looked shocked and appalled, frowned at him severely, "one of YOURS? WHO?!" "The youngest of Felane's lot, I believe," and Marya gave a loud groan, shaking her head. "And she got home safely?" she asked with obvious concern, "oh, yes, she and her handler both, a bit tattered around the edges, but home safe." "Do not let her do that again! She has no business in such a place!" came as an order, to the evident amusement of the dark haired man. "Yes, the next time I am in a position of giving an order to that one, I'll keep it in mind," almost bringing on another coughing spell. Newkirk had been watching Carter, knew when he was going to ask for more information, "Carter, stubble it, leave it go," he ordered, receiving a wry grin from several in the room. 

They left them to get some rest, awaiting the signal that would tell them it was time to depart. When the signal came, the message that told when the plane would be in position for pickup, Hogan and his crew returned to the tunnels. They paused at the entrance to the alcove. The two taller ones were dozing on cots, Marya sitting looking in the hand mirror, "well, if nothing else, it means I won't be wasting money on mirrors anymore," she said, sadly, but with some faint hint of resigned amusement in her voice. They were startled to hear the dark man speak, voice low, husky, but obviously no longer the harsh, cracked voice they'd heard previously, "No, you don't need to waste money on mirrors, solnyshka; if you need to see how beautiful you are, just look into my eyes, and you will see that reflected very clearly," with a deep chuckle, and then a hand reached out to cup the back of her head gently but firmly, possessively, his head bending over hers, his lips capturing hers for a long, slow, deep kiss, an obviously loving, and lovingly returned kiss. And from him now, only one word, spoken with resolution, without hesitation, "toujours." They were surprised to hear a sound they'd not expected to hear from the exuberent Russian, a tiny sound, a very intimate sound. "Ahem," from Hogan, and the two turned. The men were shocked; the face of the leader, though still in the shadows, was visible enough to see that it was clear, unmarked, totally different. He cocked his head, surprised at their surprise, then he chuckled, hoarse voice no longer evident, now just a husky deep one, "sorry, forgot about that. It's not very comfortable, so I took advantage of the time to get some relief, before I have to put it back on," and he turned, working with his hands, looking into the mirror Marya held for him, and when he turned back, he was the same disfigured hard unmistakable villian he'd appeared to be before. One of the other men spoke up, "you've heard? What's our rendezvous time?" and they got down to business. At the appropriate time, they left, in the back of Schnitzer's truck, Marya taking a fond farewell of her "beloved smaaalll von!", and promising they would, fate permitting, meet again after the war. He was beaming, which surprised the men considering he also had seen that kiss. But Newkirk knew the leader and Marya had spoken with him, just a bit, and LeBeau had been wearing that broad smile ever since. And LeBeau said the word softly to himself, "toujours", remembering the rest, "Je me souviendrai toujours, je viendra toujours, je suivrai toujours, je 'aimerai toujours." 'I will always remember, I will always come, I will always follow, I will always love.' Yes, he would remember those words, always.

Up in the barracks, they waited, not talking much, going about their business. Eventually, many hours later, a call came in from London, "Papa Bear, I was not aware of any code changes, and this makes no sense, but I was told to read this to you," came the puzzled voice of their usual contact. "Had cavier and blintzes for afternoon tea when I got home. Thanks for the memories." Kinch frowned, puzzled, but at a nod from Hogan gave the expected reply, "Thanks, Papa Bear out!" "Does that mean they got back okay," Carter asked anxiously. "I'd think so, bloody silly message to send to mean anything else, Andrew!" Newkirk answered his chum.

Now the talk became more pointed, covering their recent visitors. "You know, that scar, that might be something worth looking into. It totally distorted his looks, you only SAW the scar actually. The bruises at his throat, whata you think, Newkirk, makeup?" "Probably, 'e couldn't 'ave recovered in that shorta time for 'is voice to make a comeback if they'd been real." "But what was the point, Colonel? I mean, out there, yeah, as a disguise. But why keep it up in here? The scar, the voice?" "I don't know Kinch, there was a lot about that guy that didn't add up." Kinch chuckled, "Well, I'll say one thing for the guy, he has one nice line of delivery with the ladies; I think he might be almost a match for you, Colonel. I mean, 'you don't need a mirror, just look into my eyes to see how beautiful you are!' Not bad, not bad at all! And she seemed to appreciate it too, did you see that kiss??!" They all chuckled, even LeBeau, though Newkirk had thought he might leap in to his usual defense of the woman. Then, he noticed Carter, face scrunched up, one corner of his mouth uptilted, the other down, confusion filling his face. "What's with you, Andrew?" "Uh, guys, who're you talking about? WHAT guy?" was the puzzled response from his young friend. Newkirk, all of them looked at him, mouths gaping, except for LeBeau who had a teeny, tiny grin on his face as he looked down at the table and watched them through his lashes, his eyes darting from one face to the other and back. "Carter, where have you been??" said Hogan, looking at his explosives expert like he lost his senses. He was used to Carter being a little loopy sometimes, but usually he paid better attention than this! "The leader of that group? The one kissing Marya?? That guy???" Carter looked around the room, his eyes getting bigger and bigger, then his face changed to show a bit of incredulity of his own, edging into a decided smirk, "Uh, guys, you do know that wasn't a guy, don't you??!" he asked, to their stunned looks, to a tiny giggle from LeBeau, and, finally, a mighty groan from Newkirk. "Bloody 'ell, I KNEW there was something off, just didn't think it through, and I should've, seeings the number of times I'd seen HER pull that same trick!" shaking his head in disgust at his lack of attention. {"Maybe the Gov 'ad it right; 'ave to look into that scar business, if I let it distract me that much!"} Carter and LeBeau were now sharing in a serious case of the giggles, but looked up with a start as Hogan slammed his hand down on the table, "Tell Me!!" "Uh, Colonel, well, you see . . ." and this really serious smirk from Carter, "I first started figuring it out when I saw . . .I mean, did you notice that whip coiled at his, I mean her, belt? Didn't Marya say she'd become a real whiz at it? Cally, I mean," earnestly explaining to his commanding officer, who looked at LeBeau who was still grinning and giggling. "She says I am to come to see them, after the war, being as how I am French!" and Newkirk gave another loud groan. "That may not 'urt, Louie, but doubt it'd make much difference even if you weren't. Seems Coura mentioned she thought you three'd do right well together, now didn't she?" and watched LeBeau grin even more, Andrew's smirk grow even wider, and the shock on Kinch and Hogan's faces, well, he'd remember that for a long time. For himself, well, it seemed about right; he'd thought that was the size of it, from the letters, from that half-drunken chat around the table when Marya had visited before; well, none of anyone's business, to his mind, and more power to them if they could pull it off. He thought rather wistfully about it, risking just the slightest of glances over at Andrew, to catch Andrew glancing back, with just the tiniest smile on his face. {"Oh, bloody 'ell!"}


	3. Toujours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She had left them a legacy, the four of them, whether she knew it or not; a legacy that finally let them acknowledge, express what there was between them. And that legacy would accompany them for the remainder of their lives.

Je me souviendrai toujours - I will always remember  
Je viendrai toujours - I will always come  
Je suivrai toujours - I will always follow  
Je 'aimerai toujours - I will always love

 

They had lain awake in their bunks after the word about Marya's capture and slow march to Berlin to meet her fate. They had been willing, eager to rush to her rescue. Yes, there may have been ambiguity as to the White Russian's position in the scheme of things; heaven knows she'd created confusion and mayhem around them many a time, all in the name of confounding the Germans, all in the name of her Mother Russia. Still, she'd never caused harm to them, though sometimes they'd sweated that point til it all knit itself together; she'd even pulled their chestnuts out of the fire a few times, though probably with motives of her own. She wasn't one of them, but she wasn't one of THEM either. Well, except for Louie; to his mind she was HIS, but that was something else altogether. But none of them were comfortable with just letting her be taken to Berlin, there for who knows what to happen; they might not know WHAT, precisely, but each of them had enough experience, many quite up-close-and-personal experience with the Gestapo and Abwehr, to know she'd not be headed to a tea party. 

But, to their shock and dismay, London had said, 'No, stand down.' London had said that to them, to the Underground. Hogan, who'd been known to ignore London on occasion, had indeed done so when it had been the French agent Tiger in the clutches of the Gestapo, said 'No', said 'it's a trap'. Well, of course it was a trap; that was more than obvious; they weren't bloody stupid. So, they laid awake in their bunks that night, wondering if it had been one of them, would London still say, 'No, stand down,' and they each had a gut feeling that, yes, that's what London would say. And Hogan? Would there come a time when he would also say, 'No, stand down,' when one of their own team was ensnared? And they each knew that, yes, that was more than likely; that London AND Hogan looked at the big picture, sometimes a picture only THEY could see, or at least that's what the team was told, "trust me, I know what's best, do as I say, trust me." They could hear those words, along with those other words, 'No, stand down,' going round and round in their heads, and sleep came, if it came, slow and hard and filled with unpleasant dreams.

When rescue came from a different direction, one none of them could have anticipated, they rejoiced. Well, except for Hogan of course; he was annoyed at several aspects of the whole thing, but that wasn't totally unexpected. And if LeBeau wore an odd sort of smile every now and then, well, that wasn't unexpected either. It was Carter - well, of course it was, who ELSE would it have been??! - who asked LeBeau, "what she said in French that made Marya cry a little, what did it mean?" Everyone looked at him, then at each other; they had missed that. But LeBeau knew, and he smiled at Andrew, "toujours - it just means 'always'." "That's what they said the codename for that operation was," Kinch said, and Louie nodded. Hogan just huffed and retreated to his quarters to get his cap before he headed over to the Kommandant's office for a nice game of chess. At least, that was the story, and no one questioned him. Some really didn't question it, some didn't want to question it, some didn't want to think about it, and some, well, at least one tall Englishman, just didn't give a flying flip. {"As long as 'e's not dragging me back over there for some of their little fun and games, I don't give a bloody shite!"} and he swallowed hard and shuddered in memory. The other members of the Command Team saw, and sighed in full understanding and agreement. After Hogan was out the door and halfway across the compound, Andrew asked, "that's all, just 'always'?" and Louie smiled a little smile, more easy now in this company, "it is a sort of shorthand for what she wanted to say, what she had told Marya for so long, every time they met again, in every letter. 'Je me souviendrai toujours, je viendrai toujours, je suivrai toujours, je 'aimerai toujours.' 'I will always remember, I will always come, I will always follow, I will always love.' In the stillness of the cold barracks room, only one word was said, and that, of course, came from one Andrew Carter. His eyes were huge as he spoke that one word, "WOW!!!"

***

They'd caught him outside the rickety barn where he was supposed to make contact with the two Underground agents. One agent had escaped into the woods; the other was quite dead now, having made a try for the pistol at the belt of the Gestapo captain who was dragging him toward the car. {"Suicide by Gestapo, one of the surest ways to make an exit I can think of. Usually it does not work that quickly, though,"} the thoughts came fast and furious, though the rest of his body was moving at a snail's pace. Well, a pistol upside the head, and some heavy blows to the body will do that. The surprising thing was that his mind was working at all, with all the visions of what awaited him trying to crowd in and overwhelm him. He'd been this route before, had absolutely no desire to travel that route again, but didn't think he was going to be given much of a choice. He'd been alone, this time, the rest of the team back at camp warding off Klink and some of his nonsense; they'd not have any idea anything was wrong til he didn't show up in time for roll call, or until Hochstetter dragged his carcass in through those gates and put him on display. He knew it would be Hochstetter; he'd heard that captain say the name, heard the instructions given to go and fetch the Gestapo officer. {"Well, he has seen me often enough; he will remember me, and he will never believe I escaped and just happened upon this rendezvous by accident."} He felt sick at the thought of what might befall his comrades because of his failure. He was hurriedly thrust into the waiting car, to the accompaniment of more blows and laughing curses, and he huddled, waiting for what was to come, determined to tell them nothing, hoping against hope the others might find someway to keep this from destroying them all.

Later, inside the cell at the small station on the outskirts of Herstadten, the village closest to that meeting place, he listened at first without much interest to the voices in the hall, first just crisp and authoritative, but his interest rising along with that voice which was now rising almost to incoherence. He could picture the man frothing at the mouth, and from the hurried rattle of the keychain the private was carrying, the speaker might actually have been doing just that. He straightened himself, firmed his bloodied mouth resolutely, and stood, awkwardly it is true, but under his own power. "Come, quickly, the Colonel does not want to wait," the German soldier rattled away, sweat on his brow. "He does not like to wait; he said so," looking over his shoulder apprehensively. The continuing shouts seemed to confirm his assessment. The soldier grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him forward, almost thrusting him into the arms of the tall bored looking Gestapo captain, turning to the shorter Gestapo Colonel still hissing and spitting and using words he probably shouldn't be using. "Here, Herr Colonel, here is the prisoner," the soldier gasped. The Colonel turned, "Eh? What did you say? The prisoner? Oh, yes, the prisoner. Well, what are we waiting for? Come, immediately," and bustled out, the captain giving a 'what can you do, that's just the way he is!' shrug in shared feelings with the stunned soldier. The captain pulled the prisoner along, thrust him into the waiting car and took the wheel, the Colonel in the backseat along with the stunned man. "But, what are you doing here? Are you mad? Did HE send you?" knowing pretty well HE hadn't, seeing as how he was supposed to be at that party in Hammelburg, leading the krauts astray as usual. "Not exactly. He just told us to 'take care of things' while he was gone. So, we did," came the broad grin from one Andrew Carter, and that grin looked most out of place in that Gestapo uniform. "And what did you think we were going to do, eh, Louie? Leave you there for those buggers to take apart in little pieces? Not bloody likely, mate!" "But they know what I look like . . ." he started, "only that one at the cells, and 'e's too rattled to describe 'is own mother, I'd think." "But the Captain, the others," only to see the quick look passed between Carter and Newkirk, who shrugged, "came a cropper, that lot; some kind of car malfunction, I'd say, went off that 'ammelburg bridge like a bleedin rocket they did. These kraut cars; bloody poor bit of engineering, if you ask me. Give me a nice Frazer Nash any day," with a disdainful toss of his dark head. He looked in the mirror at the small Frenchman in the back, who was getting the blood wiped off his face now. "Toujours, Louie, toujours," only to have it echoed by the American, "yeah, that's right. Toujours." And they were right, the man at the cells could only stammer a general description, certainly not enough to let anyone even go searching. I mean, 'short' and 'not German' doesn't really help a heck of a lot. And, while Hogan wasn't thrilled at them heading off on their own, he was more than happy to have LeBeau back safely and with no trail, or not much of a one, for the Gestapo to follow. He may have had a slightly puzzled look on his face when the team of four raised their coffee cups at the evening meal, at the toast the four gave, solemnly and fervently, "toujours", but he didn't ask, mostly because Schultze came barrelling in to demand his presence in the Kommandant's office, immediately.

And that wasn't the last time, not by a long shot. Again and again that word was spoken, and many, many years later, in the fulfillment of time, that word was carved on four headstones, along with whatever else was written, whatever else was placed there by others for their own reasons, but that word, by the explicit wishes of each of them, it headed the lot. 'Toujours'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the translation is slightly skewed, please forgive me; at least, for them, the meaning was clear.


End file.
